


don’t get your tinsel in a tangle

by notsowearypilgrim



Series: the tinsel series [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Firefighters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Found Family, Gen, brief vague mention of parent death, firefighter partners din & cara, tinsel universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:42:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28475604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notsowearypilgrim/pseuds/notsowearypilgrim
Summary: Din likes Christmas fine. It’s just not something he…gets into. It’s a fun time of year, more parties and drinking (he loves spiked eggnog, he will admit that much), and he’s not going to begrudge anyone time with their families away from work. But when the morning of the twenty-sixth comes, he’s always moved on just fine. No nostalgia, no keeping the lights up for just one more day. Christmas is nice, but now it’s over. Simple as that.This year, though, he finds himself looking down at his neighbor’s little girl from a ladder on her front porch, with something like panic stirring in his stomach.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Cara Dune, Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda, Din Djarin & Winta, Din Djarin/Omera
Series: the tinsel series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679791
Comments: 16
Kudos: 123





	don’t get your tinsel in a tangle

**Author's Note:**

> Reworked, revamped, and reposted!

Look.

He doesn’t hate Christmas. He  _ doesn’t _ . 

But it’s been just him, in his shoebox apartment for the past fifteen years. Why would he get a tree when he works fifty hours a week?

“Because it’s the thing to do, Din,” Cara has explained on multiple occasions, like he’s some barbarian for not buying a pre-lit six footer from Big Lots. “You said Christmas was the holiday you celebrated growing up. Why would you  _ stop _ celebrating it now that you  _ are _ grown up?”

“I still celebrate it,” he protests every time. “I get you a present every year.”

That’s never appeased her; he knows his partner well enough to deduce that much from her eye rolls.

Still, just because he doesn’t decorate doesn’t make him a Scrooge. He attends the station holiday parties, purchases the present for whoever he draws out of the hat for Secret Santa, and even exchanges pecks on the cheek with anyone unlucky enough to get caught with him under the mistletoe. He knows all Twelve Days of Christmas and their respective presents, in correct order – a fact which stunned the entire department at their last holiday party during the trivia portion.

Din likes Christmas fine. It’s just not something he…gets into. It’s a fun time of year, more parties and drinking (he loves spiked eggnog, he will admit that much), and he’s not going to begrudge anyone time with their families away from work. But when the morning of the twenty-sixth comes, he’s always moved on just fine. No nostalgia, no keeping the lights up for just one more day. Christmas is nice, but now it’s over. Simple as that.

This year, though, he finds himself looking down at his neighbor’s little girl from a ladder on her front porch, with something like panic stirring in his stomach. 

Of course, changing his Christmas habits is only the barest tip of the iceberg. Even just moving to a new house in the suburbs is only one of the millions of ways his life has been topsy-turvy in the past eight months. Near the top of that list was buying a four-door sedan in addition to his bike, searching for YouTube videos on changing diapers and swaddling, and spending almost a month’s income on baby gear. 

Din has often wondered at how much one call for a residential structure fire has changed his life. The house was past saving by the time they arrived; the roof was completely engulfed in flames and fell in just moments after the truck came screeching to a halt at the curb.

Two adults and a baby, the neighbors said. They hadn’t seen anyone make it out.

Morbid as it was, it made their job simpler to only have to worry about keeping the fire from spreading. Din was trying not to think about the people trapped inside and focus on helping Cara unload the hose when he heard it.

He’d followed his ears, and when he walked around the house into the back yard, those big brown eyes were the first thing he saw.

They were full of tears, he remembers. Tears that had left streaks on the chubby, soot-stained cheeks. Din looks at the inferno-consumed house and spots an open window on the first floor. They must have shoved the kid out when they couldn’t save themselves. Thankfully the kid had been smart enough to crawl away from the fire, even if he’d still been close enough to inhale too much smoke.

Picking the kid up off the ground had been instinctive. Din doesn’t really remember doing it, though. But he does remember Mateo pressing his sweaty, overheated face into the side of his neck.

It had proven impossible to pry him off – all attempts had resulted in screaming. So Din found himself feeding the little guy his bottle and awkwardly rocking him to sleep with coaching from some of his more experienced coworkers while Cara laughed from her perch on the truck.

Then the child services worker showed up, and for some reason Din hadn’t wanted to hand the kid over. There was no logic in it; this was a person who was obviously trained and qualified and trustworthy with children. But just the thought of letting go of him, watching him be carried out that door and never seeing him again made Din feel sick to his stomach.

So he’d looked the social worker right in the eye and said, “What are my chances they’ll let me adopt him?”

The entire team had gone silent. Cara had nearly fallen off the truck in shock; his captain had been the first to speak up.

“Djarin, are you sure about this? Don’t go making an emotional decision just because of the circumstances.”

Din had only tightened his jaw. “He doesn’t want me putting him down, Karga. So I’m not going to.”

The statement actually brought tears to more than one eye, to his immense mortification. He hadn’t been trying to sound like a Hallmark card. But he’d spoken the truth – this kid trusted a perfect stranger, enough to where Din’s shoulder was apparently the safest place in the world at the moment. 

Din knew what it felt like to have the security of your family ripped away. He wasn’t about to force a kid through even more of that.

The social worker had gotten over her initial shock quickly, and smiled kindly at him. “It might take some negotiating, with your job. But we’ll see what we can do.”

That was earlier in the spring. Now it’s late autumn, and he’s living in the suburbs and driving a car that he bought mainly because of its high safety ratings and there’s a baby harness in the coat closet next to his leather jacket. It’s fine. He’s adjusted.

What he isn’t, apparently, is prepared.

Winta looks up at him, eyes widening. “Why do you look freaked out? All I did was ask you if Mateo is excited for Christmas.”

“Uh-huh.” He forces his attention back to the porch light he’s fixing. “I know.”

“Well, that was kind of a simple question, why’d you go all deer-in-the-headlights about it?”

“Winta,” comes a gently scolding voice. “That’s not a polite way to talk to Mr. Djarin. Especially since he’s helping us.”

Ah yes. Yet another reason his life has turned unrecognizably domestic – his neighbor. Omera.

He knew it was bad when she came over with her daughter and a casserole on the day he moved in, welcoming him to the neighborhood and offering to watch his boy anytime he needed.

He knew it was  _ really _ bad when he’d returned the clean casserole dish to her two days later and she’d been surprised that he’d already eaten it all – to which he responded that it was delicious, and she’d smiled and blushed and he’d almost dropped said dish like an idiot.

And he knew it was  _ disastrous _ when Mateo got a cold and she talked him through the worst of his panicking, soothing the little guy with lullabies and medicine and soothing Din in turn with her calm know-how.

“Sorry,” Winta offers in her sweet way.

“It’s fine,” he tells her, meaning it. “Hand me the flat-head screwdriver, please.”

While her daughter rummages in the toolbox, Omera looks up at him with an apologetic smile, bouncing his kid on her hip. “How’s it coming?”

“Good.” He looks up at the light fixture again, just to keep himself from falling off the ladder and into those eyes. “Almost done.”

A gurgling coo snaps his attention back down, and he can’t stop his grin.

“Hey. You being good?”

Another gurgle. Omera beams. “He’s always good. You have the most contented baby in the world.”

Din thinks back to two days ago, when he spent thirty minutes calmly explaining over the kid’s deafening tantrum that no, cookies were not an option for breakfast. “Yeah.”

Winta hands him the requested screwdriver. “So, are ya?”

“Am I what?”

“Gonna put up a Christmas tree.”

Right. The reason he was almost hyperventilating five minutes ago.

“I…I guess so.” He tightens the screw almost too much. “I’ve never done one before.”

A long silence makes him look down again, only to find two horrified expressions gaping up at him. He shifts his weight awkwardly. “Didn’t make much sense when it was just me,” he offers, trying not to sound too defensive.

Omera snaps out of it first. “Of course. That’s understandable.”

Her daughter clearly disagrees, but decides not to vocalize it. He appreciates it; there’s only so much criticism a man can take from a nine year old and still walk away with his dignity.

“Well, you’re gonna have to do a really good one this year,” she says matter-of-factly. “It’s his first Christmas.”

He’s all finished, which sucks because now he has to climb back down the ladder and face the reality that Christmas as a bachelor has in no way at all prepared him for Christmas as a single dad.

“Winta,” her mother says gently, “why don’t you take Mateo inside and fix him a snack? There’s some graham crackers, and you can turn on Sesame Street.”

Winta grins. “He loves Elmo.” She cuddles the baby close and disappears inside the house.

Din packs away his tools, makes sure the light works, and wonders if there’s a Christmas For Dummies book out there somewhere.

“Hey.” A small, warm brown hand curves around his upper arm; he jumps a little but Omera’s smile is the same as always – understanding and kind. “Don’t stress out about it. He’s so little, he won’t remember it anyway. Not this year.”

“Then…why does it matter?” He rakes one hand through his hair. It’s pointless to try and hide his insecurities from this woman. Besides, he’s found he doesn’t want to. It’s not like she’s ever judged him for them. “Isn’t Christmas, y’know…for kids? Mostly?”

“Mostly,” she agrees. “But the process of making it for them… _ that _ part’s for us.”

He squints at her. She laughs. “You’ll see. How about we go with you to get some decorations next weekend? If you’re starting from scratch it can be kind of overwhelming. And Winta’s already talking about doing our place. Getting to help out with a whole other house will be like a present in and of itself for her.”

“What about you?” he finds himself asking. “Do you still like it?”

“I’ll have you know I make an excellent door wreath,” she says with a grin, which drops when his eyes widen.

He’s been focused on the tree this whole time. But – now that he thinks, every house he’s ever been to during the holidays has had a lot more than that. Banisters wrapped in garlands, wreaths and bows and those red flowers that everyone has sitting on their kitchen counters…

_ Boy _ , is he underprepared.

“Don’t,” Omera says quickly. “Don’t panic, Din, it’s okay. It’s fine – “

“I don’t even have a – a…” he trails off, the list of what he doesn’t have for this obviously vital holiday terrifying him.

“It’s  _ fine _ ,” she insists. “It’s not even December yet, there’s plenty of time to get everything you want. Next weekend, we’ll go to the stores on Saturday and spend Sunday putting it all up. Okay?”

He breathes a little easier, now that there’s a plan. “Okay.”

/

Cara stares at him. “I’m sorry. You can’t come over to watch the game at my place because you’re doing  _ what? _ ”

Din very carefully keeps his eyes on the pan of taco meat in front of him. He likes being the one on kitchen duty, but a major downside to it is that he’s stuck at the stove and can’t escape Cara’s...well, her general presence, really. “Because I’m taking Mateo shopping for Christmas stuff.”

“Christmas stuff,” she echoes. “Like…a tree? A plate for Santa’s cookies?”

He frowns, checks the rice and forgets not to make eye contact with her. “They make special plates for that?”

“Dude.” Cara’s mouth hangs open. “You’re buying a tree? And, like, are gonna decorate it with ornaments and lights and – “

“Yes,” he snaps. “I’m sure you’re happy my years of being the resident grinch have finally come to an end.”

“Oh, I’m not happy,” she says, leaning back against the counter with a horrifying grin. “I’m ecstatic. Forget the game, I’m coming with you guys.”

“What?”

His voice is a little harsh due to his surprise, and for a moment Cara’s happy grin falters and he feels guilty. But then realization dawns on her face, and he decidedly does  _ not _ feel guilty, not even a little bit.

“Don’t tell me,” she drawls. “Your cute neighbor and her kid are going with you.”

Din does not grace that with a reply, which is all the answer she needs, really. She cackles, so loudly that Kuiil looks up from the couch.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Din says sharply.

“He’s got a  _ date _ ,” Cara tells the entire room gleefully. “To go shopping for Christmas decorations.”

People actually start applauding. Karga punches him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger.

“It’s not a date,” he says, over and over again as his back gets slapped and a few of the married women even squeeze his hands, saying they’re so happy for him. He glares at his partner, who looks positively beside herself.

“It’s not a date,” he tells her firmly, and reminds himself to remember that.

/

Saturday morning dawns sunny and brisk; not so cold that walking from the car into the stores will be miserable, but cold enough that his coffee feels heavenly going down.

It’s  _ not _ a date. So he very casually throws on the first clean sweater he finds (actually the second one, because the first one has a stain from when Cara threw spaghetti at him in retaliation for him critiquing her use of store-bought sauce). He makes sure the jeans he pulls out of the dryer aren’t too wrinkled, decides they are and then changes into a different pair, and obstinately refuses to shave or put any extra effort into his hair. 

Because it’s not a date.

Mateo can tell something is up and jabbers happily as he gets stuffed into a long-sleeved onesie with a red-nosed reindeer on the behind. Winta brought the outfit over yesterday, solemnly explaining that wearing Christmas clothes while doing Christmas shopping is a  _ tradition _ . He’d accepted the tiny plastic hanger meekly, noting that it even has a hood with little felt antlers.

Winta and her mother are both extremely pleased to see the kid in his festive apparel; Din gives the red-and white striped get-up a once over. It  _ is _ pretty cute, he’ll admit. And Mateo loves being the center of attention, so that means he’ll be in a good mood today. Small mercies, he thinks as he hefts the diaper bag into the trunk.

“Where’s yours?” Winta demands, fists on her hips.

“My what?”

“Your Christmas sweater,” she says in a  _ duh _ voice.

That’s when he notices that they’re also wearing holiday-themed outfits. He takes a moment to discreetly appreciate the cream-colored sweater that Omera’s wearing, and the red and green polka dots - which are actually tiny little tree ornaments - that just make the whole thing  _ unfairly _ adorable.

He pulls his eyes away with difficulty and turns back to the irate nine-year-old in front of him.

“I don’t have one.”

For a horrible moment he thinks she might cry. “I’ll get one,” he offers immediately. She nods, satisfied, and climbs into his backseat; Din gives Omera a wide-eyed look and she just smiles gently, and once they’re all buckled in she turns the Christmas music on for Winta to sing along to. It’s drastically different from his quiet rides to and from work – but it’s nice. The drive into town doesn’t seem to take nearly as long, and Mateo is still giggling when Din straps him into the carrier on his chest.

“Mama made a list,” Winta informs him imperiously as they cross the parking lot. “And we’re gonna get the tree last, because that takes the most time to get right.”

“Okay,” he agrees mildly, getting a cart and turning to Omera expectantly. She grins and consults the list.

“First up – hardware for stuff on the porch.”

/

Five hours.

They’ve been at this for  _ five hours _ .

Mateo has taken his morning nap in the carrier, oblivious to the debate between using colored lights or white, flashing or non, LED or classic. He woke up somewhere in the middle of picking out giant buckets of monochromatic ornaments. Now they’re at McDonald’s for lunch, and Din is confident the afternoon will pass as pleasantly as the morning did. After all, few things make his kid happier than French fries.

Din feeds him pinched-off pieces of hamburger bun and tries not to stare at Omera when she licks some of the sauce for her chicken nuggets off her finger.

“Can I take him to go play?” Winta begs once both kids have eaten most of their meals.

“Sure,” he relents. “Don’t let him go down the slide by himself, he’ll fall.”

He watches his son laugh and flail around in the ball pit, feeling something warm and steady in his chest slide into place.

“He’s a sweet boy,” Omera says. “You’re doing so well with him.”

Din snorts softly. “I feel most days like he should be taking care of me. I’ve never used Google or YouTube so much in my life.”

She laughs. “That’s normal parenting,” she assures him. “You really are a natural, especially for going at it alone. Did you always want to adopt?”

Din sips at the last of his Coke. “Never even considered it. But Cara and I got called in for a residential fire one night. The house was already gone, and his parents were trapped inside. They pushed him out a window on the first floor and I found him in the backyard.”

Omera’s eyes have gone impossibly soft; for once he doesn’t make himself look away. “Din…”

He swallows.

“He really loves you,” she says.

Din hasn’t really thought about that before. None of this has been about what’s in it for him. His focus has been on making sure Mateo doesn’t experience the same disinterest Din knew after his own parents died. He spent the rest of his childhood being shuffled through the foster system, unwanted and unloved. He’s only ever tried to give Mateo the opposite. So the idea that that little gremlin looks up at him – the socially awkward, inexperienced fire fighter who’s never had a Christmas tree – with any sort of affection makes Din’s throat feel tight.

Omera smiles gently, reaching over to rest her hand on his. “It shouldn’t surprise you,” she says. “Children are very loving creatures, as long as they’re shown how. And you’ve certainly done a wonderful job of that.”

Din wants to thank her, wants to tell her that he doesn’t know if he’d remember which way is up most days if he hadn’t had the luck to move in next to someone as kind and considerate and selfless as she is. But all his attention is focused on the feeling of her soft hand on his. Without really thinking about it, he turns his over and twists his fingers through hers.

Her breath catches; he’s positive he didn’t imagine the sound. He glances up at her and finds that distracting blush spreading across her cheeks again, her lips parting in surprise. But it’s her eyes that nearly do him in – they’ve gone dark and wide and he’s pretty sure he could drown in them if she’d let him.

“Mr. Djarin,” Winta suddenly appears, holding a fussing baby. “I think he needs his diaper changed.”

Din found his hand empty almost before he even realized that Winta was talking to him instead of her mother. He sets his kid in the crook of one arm and grabs the diaper bag with the other hand.

“I’ll change him, and then we can go get the tree.”

Omera nods, studying the few fries left on her tray with an intensity that tells him she’s not embarrassed. It makes him feel a little better about losing that moment so suddenly.

He gets Mateo cleaned up, and drives them all to the tree lot – where he is promptly informed that this is the most sacred of all Christmas traditions, and will be expected to involve the kid in this part of the holidays for years to come.

No pressure or anything.

“So…we just pick one?”

Omera winces, and laughs a little at Winta’s incredulous stare. “Mr. Djarin, you can’t just pick one. You have to pick the  _ perfect _ one.”

“Okay,” is all he says, because he doesn’t understand what she’s trying to tell him. But if he’s learned anything today, it’s not to argue with Winta about Christmas.

She coaches him through the experience of picking out a Christmas tree – apparently it’s about color and fullness and height, but it’s also about the tree’s aura. Whatever that is.

“How about you pick the one you think he’ll like best,” he finally says.

This is obviously the perfect thing to say; Winta beams and darts off among the trees. Omera laughs.

“You may regret that later.”

“I doubt it. I have no idea how I’m supposed to gauge the feeling a tree gives me.”

She laughs again; he ducks his head to hide how pleased the sight makes him feel, to know he could bring that sound into existence.

“So we’ve got the tree and all the trimmings,” he says, trying to remember her list. “Anything else?”

She hums thoughtfully. “Well, you’ve got all the necessary components. Now it’s just about the stuff you want, to make it yours.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, knick-knacks and things you can find in stores, when you’re not really looking.” She shrugs. “I always get a cinnamon candle. Smells like my grandmother’s house when I was a kid. Things like that.”

He has a few childhood memories to go off – bells hung from the front door knob, cookie recipes he thinks he has in a box somewhere. But in more recent years he’s spent several pleasant evenings in the homes of his coworkers, and remembers one particular tradition that he wouldn’t mind trying.

“What about mistletoe?” he asks evenly.

She stiffens, but that wide-eyed look of pleasant surprise is back, along with the pink staining her cheeks.

“Is that – “ she trails off.

“I’ve been to some parties that had it,” he offers casually, just in case he’s stepping over the line. “It wasn’t...uh, bad. Everyone knew it was just for fun, not a hard rule.”

She gets his underlying meaning, evidenced by the way the surprise melts off her face but all the pleasure stays put.

“Well then,” she says, walking over to a side display of little green sprigs tied with red ribbon. “I’ve always been a firm believer in indulging oneself, especially at Christmas.”

She hands him the mistletoe, and honestly the squirming kid strapped to his chest is the only reason he doesn’t kiss her then and there.

“I found it!” Winta appears, with her usual excellent timing, and grabs their hands to drag them through the piney-fresh maze. “It’s  _ perfect _ , Mr. Djarin, wait till you see it – “

He shells out more money than can be considered reasonable for a tree, but he’s got a small fortune in the trunk of his car already so what’s a little more, really?

It isn’t until much later, driving home with a huge tree strapped to the top of his family-friendly car and listening to Winta belting out Christmas carols while Mateo laughs happily, that Din lets his mind drift to the little paper sack tucked in the trunk amongst the ornaments and boxes of lights, with its bundle of green leaves and red ribbon.

He sneaks a glance over to the passenger seat, and catches her looking at him with that soft look in her eyes again.

He clears his throat and drags his attention back to the road.

/

Sunday, as promised, is spent putting all of the ridiculous things he bought the day before to use. The kid is on cloud nine, giggling at Omera and Winta as they wind ribbons and pin up garlands and show him how to cram so many lights onto the tree that it’s probably a fire hazard.

Like he promised Winta, he bought a Christmas sweater yesterday: one with a big Santa face knitted into the front. It’s something he prays Cara never sees him wearing, but the way Omera’s eyes lit up when he answered the door is well worth any future teasing.

“See?” Winta hooks an ornament carefully onto her chosen branch. “Just pick one that isn’t droopy, otherwise it won’t support the weight.”

Din peers carefully over her shoulder, holding her level with his chest so she can reach. “Uh-huh.” He sets her down and sees Omera bringing in a tray that holds three mugs of hot chocolate, and a tiny bowl of mini marshmallows.

Mateo decides that marshmallows are the best thing ever, and tries to steal all of Din’s right out of his mug of hot chocolate. Din spends several minutes gently fighting him off until finally standing up to guzzle the whole cup just to remove all temptation. He thinks it’s a pretty clever strategy, until he looks over and sees Omera trying not to laugh.

“What?”

She giggles, and he loves the sound more than he knew it was possible to love anything.

“You have - “

“Mama, can I show Mateo my reindeer headband?”

“Sure,” Omera says. “It’s in your coat pocket, remember? By the front door.”

Winta runs off, Mateo following at his own unsteady pace. Omera turns back to Din, smiling in what he still thinks is amusement but it’s tempered somehow, into something gentler and sweeter than the way Cara or any of his foster siblings ever laugh at him.

He manages not to jump out of his skin when she raises a hand and brushes her thumb through his mustache, caressing his upper lip. It comes away covered in white foam.

“Perils of drinking melted marshmallows,” she says apologetically.

Din can’t even find it in him to be embarrassed, not when she’s looking at him like that.

“Thank you.”

His voice comes out  _ much _ rougher than he intended, especially with both kids nearby. But she blushes again and looks down with a shy smile, and he decides Mateo won’t remember, and he and Winta are both out of earshot anyway. He glances down and suddenly realizes he’s gotten an early Christmas present - Mateo has crawled after Winta, and he can hear them both giggling, sitting just around the doorframe that leads to the front hall.

Omera starts to turn away and reach for more ornaments. He grabs her hand. She jumps, but offers no resistance when he tugs gently. Her eyes go as wide as dinner plates when he slowly lifts her hand, and slides his tongue over her thumb, removing all traces of marshmallow from her skin.

Marshmallows are great on a normal day. But like this? They’re the  _ best _ .

He doesn’t really take his time with it, due to both kids’ presence and the possibility that she actually may not want his mouth anywhere near her. But she certainly doesn’t pull away, and the look on her face leaves him feeling pretty confident he doesn’t owe her an apology. He releases her hand, and is trying to think of something to say when Winta comes barreling back into the room.

“Mr. Djarin, will you help me put the star on top?”

He turns, maybe too quickly. “Sure.”

(Omera spends the rest of the afternoon blushing every time he looks at her, but every new sweep of pink on her cheeks is accompanied by a smile.)

Later, after the boxes and packaging have been taken out for trash day and the last bow is tied, Din sits on his couch and looks around. Winta has Mateo snuggled on her lap, curled up in the big easy chair that’s usually Din’s spot. He put in a movie for them earlier, and now they’ve crashed from all the sugar. His chest feels funny, looking at them like this, especially after a day spent in such untarnished joy. 

Seeing his kid coo and point excitedly at the lights has reshaped his feelings for the holiday. Omera was right, as usual.

Speaking of…

He can hear her, in the kitchen. He pauses to throw a blanket over the kids, and slowly pads down the hallway.

She’s washing their hot chocolate mugs, and the sight of her in sock feet and smiling over her shoulder at him makes Din feel light-headed.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

She tuts softly. “I don’t mind.”

“You’ve done enough today,” he protests, crossing the room to start drying. “You haven’t even touched your own house yet.”

“Next weekend,” she says with a smile. “Winta already has it all planned out.”

“I bet,” he grins. “We’ll come help. Least we can do.”

“Good,” she says, and there’s something in her voice that makes his hands pause with the dish towel. He glances over at her. “I need someone tall to help with some of it.”

“Sure,” he agrees, wondering what he’s missing.

She comes a step closer, uses the towel he’s holding to dry her hands. “Tree topper and stuff like that.”

He swallows, audibly. “Hard for either of you to reach.”

“And…this.”

She reaches behind her; his heart slams hard and heavy against his ribcage when she twirls the little wad of mistletoe between her fingers. Her eyes flicker up to meet his, but not without lingering on his lips first.

This is where he should say something witty and flirtatious. But his mouth has gone dry as sand, so instead he puts the towel down, gently takes the mistletoe from her hand, and holds it between them, overhead.

He’s rewarded with a smile so bright it makes his knees shake. And then she reaches up, and holds onto his chest so she can lift up on her toes.

She tastes like chocolate and marshmallows, and he is lost the very instant their mouths touch. He drops the mistletoe back on the counter, so he can wrap both arms around her waist and haul her closer. She in turn locks her arms around his neck, running her hands through his hair and generally making it extremely difficult for him to retain his sanity.

At some point he pivots and pushes her up against the counter, and then lifts her to sit on it so he can stand between her legs. She sighs happily into him and pulls him even more against her.

“I really like this sweater,” she says breathlessly as he works his way down her neck. “It makes your arms look really nice.”

“Cool,” he says, not to be distracted from the smooth curves of her collarbone.  _ I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you _ , he wants to add. But it’s too soon. 

So instead he moves up to kiss her again, deep and soft and savoring the way she melts right there in his arms. 

“Kids – “

“Asleep,” he mutters.

Omera sighs into his mouth, scratching her fingernails through his beard. “You look cute with marshmallows in your mustache.”

“You look cute when I’m licking them off your fingers,” he retorts, grinning. “Your face was so red it could have put Rudolph on the bench for guiding Santa’s sleigh.”

She gasps in scandalized laughter, but he cuts her off with another press of his mouth to hers. He’s just about to brush his hands up the back of her shirt when a wail echoes down the hall from the living room.

Breathing hard, he lets his head drop onto her shoulder for just a moment. She runs her fingers through his hair again, down his neck and shoulders. He nearly collapses at the soothing touch.

“It’s very late,” she says. “I’d better get us home.”

“All right,” he agrees, though he doesn’t want to. He straightens up and almost kisses her again when he sees how good she looks like this, well-kissed and disheveled. Her eyes are softer than ever, and there’s a pleased smile teasing at the corners of her swollen mouth. He wonders if she likes the same look on him.

“Thank you for all your help,” he tells her, hoping she understands he’s not talking about the lesson in hanging ornaments.

She smiles at him again, warm and radiant. “Merry Christmas, Din.”

He lets his forehead press against hers. “Merry Christmas.”


End file.
